It was only a short
walk to the pasture bars, but they had to ramble about a little while,
before they found the horses. At last they found them feeding together
at the edge of a grove of trees. There were two or three horses, and
several long-tailed colts. The boy caught one of the horses, which he
called Nero. Nero was a white horse. Marco mounted him and rode down,
with the other horses and the colts following him. They put the horse
in the stable until after breakfast, and then harnessed him into the
wagon. When all was ready, the farmer told them to bring the sailor
along with them to his house, if they found that he was hurt so that
he could not travel.
When they were seated in the wagon, and had fairly commenced
their ride, Marco asked Forester, what he meant last evening by a
_grass_ farm. "You told me," said he, "that you wanted me to see
a great grass farm."
"Yes," replied Forester. "The farms in this part of the United States
may be called grass farms. This is the grass country."
"Isn't it all grass country?" asked Marco. "Grass grows everywhere."
"Grass is not _cultivated_ everywhere so much as it is among
the mountains, in the northern states," replied Forester.
